Cynics From the Woodwork

I breezed through the writings of this blogger, and he writes fantastic. He will be me, if I were straight and were I using my dick for it's rightful, God-given office, and for all the right reasons, I should be challenged by his posts and his topics. Why, I could assume, in secret, of course, that we are riding on the same wave length, and I should be happy because, at last, there's another eloquent cynic with the shiniest grammar. I should be inspired to write again, or at least post with the same next-to-nothing frequency that has always been my habit, but no.

I promised myself a break, not like I need it, and I'm real handy at promises. But I suppose I can, at least, get myself warmed up. This post will be a stretching exercise. Somebody pass me the lube.

Of course, I am still doing long hand, writing, that is, and I have several notebooks scattered in several rooms in case of emergency inspiration. I still need to write, and I use "need" because it is the only word to use. It's like your need to masturbate, or your need to post those pedestrian Facebook statuses, or your need to keep hiding in your closet. Need. I need to write, and I can't abandon that, I can't deny myself of that one outlet; I have no employment for another appendectomy.

Meanwhile, cheers to you. Spread the offensive. Educate. Indoctrinate. Keep doing whatever it is you're good at. Humor your passion with the words that you think are appropriate. Give everybody else the finger. Don't give a fuck. It works better your way.